


Not Just Any Woman Would Do

by SoulOfSnow



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-11-27
Updated: 2011-11-26
Packaged: 2017-10-26 14:11:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/284184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoulOfSnow/pseuds/SoulOfSnow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jory finds comfort for his loneliness in a maid from the winter town, but he imagines it to be someone else, as does she.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Just Any Woman Would Do

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first time I have ever posted a fanfic online and I am SO nervous, so please don't tear it apart TOO much XD  
> I'm not sure if I want to carry it on or leave it as it is, based on where it fits into Game of Thrones, so I have left the ending pretty open, I just wanted to post something to see if I'm any good before I invest a lot of time in something longer. So please leave comments, and give me as much constructive feedback as you can; I promise to take it all on board!
> 
> Oh and I want to see if you can guess who SHE is... let me know your thoughts. (:

With a deadly intent, the sword whistled passed his head, whispering its venomous voice in his ear. If he hadn’t of suddenly ducked, parrying the blow, it may have taken his eye, and his life with it. Instead he twisted on his heels, driving a shoulder into his opponent’s gut. The young Lord lay sprawled on the floor, fighting for breath. Switching his blade into the other hand, he rested the point of the sword under his chin, and Robb Stark was dead.

Jory Cassel, Captain of the Guards, had always been a tall, muscular man; square shoulders, well defined arms and strong legs. Yet regardless of his size, he was shocked at how much Robb Stark threatened to top him in both size and strength, despite still being able to outsmart the young Lord.  
“You must be quicker on your feet, my Lord.” Jory pulled Stark to his feet and clapped him on the shoulder. Robb smiled meekly. Jory had always been close with the Stark children. He often trained with Robb, taught Bran to ride a horse and Arya loved telling him secrets. Secrets he always kept. But as they grew he realised the loneliness there was in being an unmarried man. Not that just any woman would do. Only _she_ would be fit in Jory’s eyes, and _she_ was not here.

Picking up the tourney swords, Jory made his way to the armoury. He sheathed them both in their holdalls and sat on the smith’s bench, staring out across the busying courtyard. The sound of the steel meeting steel still rang in his ears. The things he loved the most had a habit of lingering in his mind until such time as they were replaced with something sweeter. The ringing of steel, the sound of music in the great hall, _her_ voice; it was all twisting and spinning in his mind, choking out the memories of war and battles he had fought in, of his father’s death and of losing _her_. He inhaled sharply taking in the smells of fire and smoke, of the cold air and its bitter aftertaste he had always preferred to the humid stench of the south.  
The sound of the blacksmith’s hammer pounding against the anvil broke Jory’s investment in one of his fondest memories of _her_ , just as his uncle stepped out from behind the blazing hearth.  
“Jory.” The white whiskered man nodded his head toward his nephew, wiping coal soot from his fingers with an old rag. Rodrik Cassel was the Master-At-Arms in Winterfell, and had been for almost thirty years. Although the years had aged him, and he had developed a somewhat rounded physique, he still commanded the respect of all the guards; Jory in particular. Rodrik had taken the role of Jory’s father since Martyn Cassel had been slain at the Tower Of Joy during Robert’s Rebellion.  
“Uncle.” Jory stood, resting a hand on the pommel of his sword. “I trust you will be at the feast tonight?” Rodrik nodded, stepping out from behind the work bench. He looked out across the yard as servants and serving maids carried baskets of fruit and vegetables towards the great hall. Following close on one of the servant’s heels was a young direwolf pup. Summer, Jory surmised, after examining the animal’s coat. The servant dropped a piece of cheese into the pup’s mouth and hurried on his way.  
“Direwolves south of the wall; winter truly is coming.” Rodrik unsheathed a sword hanging on the wall in its scabbard, admiring the fine Valyrian steel. “That Theon Greyjoy might be a lot of things, but there are two things I know I’ll always give him credit for; his skill with a bow, and thinking that a good clean death was the best thing for those beasts.” He sheathed the sword, gathered his cloak and left Jory in the armoury alone. He followed after his uncle, stepping out into the yard. Leaning against a wooden pillar, Jory heard his name being called from behind the stables. Bran and Arya ran toward him each carrying a bow, red faced and giddy.  
“Jory, stop Bran from chasing me!” Arya darted behind his legs, hiding from the little lordling. Bran swiped his bow at Arya’s knees, but Jory caught it short, holding it too high for Bran to reach.  
“What is going on?” He asked, laughing and holding Bran still by his shoulders. Arya stepped out from behind him, a huge grin sweeping across her long face. Despite Sansa being known as the prettier sister, Jory always thought Arya comely for such a young girl. She looked like _her_.  
“I hit the target with my bow first time, and I was stood ten feet further than Bran, who has yet to hit it at all!” Arya dropped her bow and placed her hands on her hips. Jory laughed.  
“You heard father; not even Robb was a marksman at ten!” Bran protested, swiping at his sister with his bare hands. Jory pulled them apart; he knew Arya could beat her brother black and blue if she wanted to.  
“Robb wasn’t a marksman at twelve!” Jory said, crouching to meet Bran’s eye level. “Little lord, one day you will be the finest soldier in all the seven kingdoms. Until then, a little competition is healthy.”  
“But Arya is a girl!”  
“I am not! I am a knight!” Arya lunged forward and punched Bran hard on the arm, before laughing and heading for the Glass Garden. Bran followed suit, and the two disappeared. Jory rose again, smiling. It wasn’t until then that she caught his eye. The serving maid he had last taken a fortnight passed. She sat across the yard from him on a stone bench, rinsing cloth in a tin tub. Thin brown hair pulled loosely into a bun allowed only for a few strands that curled prettily to fall over her face as she worked. Marissa was her name; some young girl from the winter town. Their eyes met briefly as he resumed leaning on the pillar. She had eyes like _hers_ ; dark and gloomy, always searching for answers. Answers that Jory could not give. Marissa smiled discretely, careful not to disclose knowledge of even knowing who Jory was.

They usually met at night; after feasts in the serving quarters or behind the stables after a hunt. She would come to him eager to have her fill, pulling at his breeches and slipping out of her tunic with rehearsed execution. Sometimes she would whisper in his ear things she assumed he wished to hear, although he often did not. On other occasions she would not speak at all. He had bedded her three times before he even knew her name and yet still she would return, time after time, and still he would fuck her again and again with an increasing desperation to please her.  
He had learned the places she liked to be touched the most; gentle kisses behind her ear that would make her gasp softly, wrapping her legs around his waist so he could fill her completely, rubbing his thumb over the soft pearl of flesh between her thighs that made her whimper with pleasure. The thing he loved the most was when he hit the spot deep inside her that made her moan the loudest, for in that brief moment her eyes would flutter open, staring right at him, as if she was truly seeing him for all he was. No matter how well he timed that moment with her climax, however, Marissa’s eyes would soon snap shut and she would go back to dreaming of the man she wished was taking her.

He could have beaten her, forced her to look at him, told her to call out his name and enjoy his company, but he couldn’t be mad at the poor girl; he was after all, doing the same. Tangling his hand in her hair, he would imagine Marissa to be _her_ , rolling _her_ hips under him, kissing him with an increasing intensity and nibbling his lip. He’d whisper _her_ name under his breath and imagine _her_ whispering back, urging him to go faster. It was in that moment when Marissa opened her sad brown eyes that he truly saw _her_ and _her_ brown eyes, looking at him with love and devotion. The love and devotion he had never seen before. It was enough to send him over the edge, and, finishing hard inside her; the two of them would close their eyes tight and mouth the names of the ones they truly wished to be with in a silent cry of ecstasy.  


After it was done the two of them would get dressed, wish each other a goodnight and return to their chambers, cold and alone. Jory hated the walk back to his chambers, for it was in that exact moment he would slip passed _her_ place, and no matter how hard he tried; a single stinging tear would roll down his cheeks and disappear into his beard.


End file.
